Reparation
by Lambogod
Summary: Sequel to Things Change, Feelings Don't.
1. They're coming to take me away...

_It was just another day. Typical in every fashion. I woke up, took a shower, got dressed, ate breakfast, listened to Olga practice her stupid lines for a few minutes, hopped on the bus, and rode to school. I pretended to listen to the teachers for awhile, I ate lunch, pretended to listen to the teachers again. I sat in detention for the tenth straight day, "making up work", which is what they called it. I would've called it staring blankly at the wall for a solid hour. _

And then I went home, walked upstairs, took out my camera, loaded it, and walked to the park. Typical day. 

The park was quiet, as usual. Not very many people felt like hanging out here anymore. It held a certain stigma now, since some kid committed suicide here a year ago. Nobody feels comfortable around the park. Perfect place for me to hang out. 

I walked over to my tree. It was the way it always was. Leaves, bark, Helga and Arnold forever with a heart around it, yep, all the same. I sat down, setting my camera on my lap. I couldn't decide what to capture. I had already gotten every possible angle of my tree, and I'd pretty much gotten every creative picture possible in the park. I really needed new inspiration. 

"Hey Helga!" It was Phoebe. She was riding toward me on her bike, casually and daintily. It really made me sick, the way she carried herself nowadays. Ever since she started going out with that foreign exchange student, she thought she was so cool. And she acted like it, around everybody but me. When we were alone, she was usually pretty tolerable. 

"Hi Phoebe," I said, setting my camera on the grass and stretching out. "What's up?" 

"Just seeing what you were up to. Olga said you'd probably be here." 

I laughed. "Yeah, where else would I be?" I picked up my camera again and took a candid shot of Phoebe. She was looking off to the side, and I liked the way her hair was blowing in the wind. Really dramatic-looking. She gave me a disgusted look and laughed. 

"Man, Helga, I looked horrible! My hair's all messed up, and my make-up was starting to . . ." She stopped, seeing the look I was giving her. She knew better than to start with all that stuff around me. "I was just kidding." 

"I know. How's Miguel?" I asked, not really interested in how he was doing, but desiring to be polite nonetheless. 

"Oh, he's fine. He's leaving tomorrow to visit his family in Spain. Then he's coming back here for the rest of the school year." She smiled, and her eyes got kind of cloudy. 

"How long's he gonna be gone?" I asked. 

"Just a couple weeks." She turned her bike around and looked at me over her shoulder. "Do you feel like coming over for awhile?" 

I shook my head, and she nodded. "I understand. Take care, Helga!" And she rode away. But she hadn't gotten more than thirty yards when she stopped, turned around, and pedaled back. She stopped in front of me, her right leg holding herself and the bike up, and stared down at me. 

"Helga, I need to ask you: Are you okay? I mean, is there anything I can do to help?" 

I stared back at her for a moment before I erupted into laughter. She first looked pleased, then confused, then annoyed, then disgusted. I kept right on laughing. Finally, she gave up and rode away. 

As she rode off, I took another quick snapshot. I guess she was still my friend--even when I treated her like that--but just to be safe, I had to take her picture. 

Photography, for me, is a way of capturing. A way of holding those few things that are precious to me close to my heart. I started taking pictures of everything three years ago. Then, I advanced to taking pictures of only the better moments of my life. Finally, I decided that anything that I felt was important should be recorded. 

Sound strange? It is, I guess. But there's a method to my madness. 

_The most recent picture I have of him was one from junior high, seventh grade, I think. I look at it from time to time, but it doesn't do him justice. It's not who he _is_, it's who he _was_. _

I missed all those opportunities, to capture his loving face forever. I was not going to let that happen ever again. The world was too big and too frightening to let anything go . . . how do I put it . . . unphotographed. 

And so she rode away, angry at me again. I could hardly blame her. For three years I've been a jerk to her. Not a total jerk, but not very friendly, either. I can hardly remember why. I think it had to do with the first time I was put in government care. Yes, the _first_ time. There've been four or five times since then. Each case getting progressively worse. 

Miriam was far too stoned to pay any attention to me, and Bob drank all the time. Finally, the powers that be had enough, and took me out of their custody. If it weren't for Olga, I would've been put up for adoption. Ha. Like anyone would want me . . . 

So I guess I'm indebted to Olga, for taking me in, adopting me or whatever. And really, she's not so bad anymore. I used to hate her with a passion, but now I owed her--maybe--my very life. 

_I can barely remember what he looks like anymore. I'll look at his picture, remember for awhile, try to fill in the lost years in my mind, but then the second I put the picture away, I forget. It's discouraging. And scary. I try not to let it get to me, but it does, you know?_

I stood up, dusted myself off, and started for home. It was a modest place, an apartment, actually, and had two bedrooms and one bathroom. It was cozy, I guess, and at least livable. 

I walked up the front steps. Olga was just on her way out. 

"Hi Helga. How was school?" I shot her a dirty look, and she got the idea. "Not good, huh? Hmm... Oh well, there's always tomorrow, right?" 

"Yeah. Right." 

She was concerned about me. Who wouldn't be? "Do you wanna come with me? I'm going to the store. We're completely out of milk." 

"Yeah, sorry, I drank the last of it this morning. I was gonna tell you." 

"That's alright. Do you feel like coming along?" 

I thought for a moment, then shook my head. "No, thanks. I'm gonna go lay down." 

"Alright, Helga. I'll be back in awhile." 

I walked inside, upstairs, and crawled into bed. I wasn't tired, but I had nothing better to do. I must've laid there for an hour or more before I fell asleep. 

_I really want to make it up to him. I mean, I ruined his life completely. For all I know, he's lying in some street corner, dead. And it would all be my fault. It _is_ my fault. There's no one to blame but myself. _

He deserves to be happy. He deserves love. Life. Everything that I could've given him. I know I didn't deserve him, but that's not the point. It's the principle. He got a bad share of life, and it was mostly my fault. 

It's been three years, and my feelings still haven't changed. I don't vocalize them anymore. I don't even write about them anymore. But they're still there. It doesn't matter, though. No one's heard from him at all. He's at least dead to me, if he's not dead to the world. 

Olga was home when I woke up. She was downstairs, trying her best to cook. She'd really lost the knack for it since she started focusing all her energy on becoming an actress. It was edible, though, and for that I was thankful. 

"Oh, Helga, you're up. There's a letter for you. It's on the desk." 

A letter? That was funny, since I really didn't have any friends. I walked to the front room and looked at it. It was in a plain, white envelope. There was no return address. There was a Fat Elvis stamp on it, not one of the valuable ones, but a fake one, I guess. It was addressed, quite simply, to Helga Pataki. It was labeled with my old address (apparently they forwarded to me), and I didn't recognize the handwriting. 

I picked it up and walked upstairs, nervous for some reason. My hands shook as I tried to open it. Finally, frustrated, I used a pen. It slit the top, and the letter dropped out neatly onto my bed. 

It began: 

_Dear Helga, _

I'm writing you on a matter of the utmost urgency. It is regarding a young boy you know, a boy named Arnold. 

My heart skipped a beat. I nearly passed out. My palms poured with sweat as I continued reading. 

_He requests that you visit him immediately, at the address provided below. Again, I state that the matter is of the utmost urgency. Please, come as soon as you possibly can._

It wasn't signed, and all that was left on the page was the address, which I recognized to be someplace on the east side. It wasn't too far. I could ride there in a couple hours. Unless I could convince Olga to drive me. But I knew she wouldn't let me go if I showed her the letter. It was too cryptic. 

But the possibility that Arnold was alive and well was too exciting to pass up. I quickly gathered some essentials together in my backpack, and climbed out the window. I wouldn't even bother telling Olga I was leaving. She'd figure it out when I didn't come down for dinner, anyway. 

The ride was uneventful. I won't even go into it. But when I came to the street, I saw at once that I wasn't in a good neighborhood. And to make it worse, it was getting dark really quickly. I knew it wasn't safe to be here, but my determination to find Arnold pushed me forward. 

The building was a small, run-down dump. It was probably a house at one point, but not anymore. A disgusting trash can lay on it's side right inside the gate, and when I approached it a rat scurried from it to the other side of the yard. 

I tripped my way over some other things that I won't mention, and finally reached the front door. I knocked. It opened. 

"You must be Helga," came a woman's voice. "Please, come in. Arnold's anxious to see you." 

This was really creepy. I mean, _really_ creepy. I followed the woman, who's features I couldn't really make out in the dark, back into the house. I heard the door slam behind me, and knew at once that I shouldn't have come. 

"Now, if you'll just sit here, I'll go get him." 

I did what she said, more out of fear than anything. I didn't want to die, but I was sure now that I was going to. The woman left the room and walked upstairs. It was so dark, I didn't know how she could see where she was going. I could barely make out the table, and I was sitting at it. A streetlight was visible from the window over the sink, and on impulse I leapt over to it and threw it open. The woman returned just as I did so. 

"Now now, what do you think you're doing?" she asked, flipping the light switch on. "What are you doing in my house?!" 

I stared at her, a little confused to say the least. She was running for the phone, dialing 911. 

The next thing I knew, I was sitting in a jail cell, waiting until Olga could get there to bail me out. She came through the entrance, her face completely clouded. She waited as they opened the cell door and escorted me to the front, where she had more papers to sign. Finally, we were in the car and on the way home. 

She finally broke the ice. "What the heck were you doing?!" 

I stared down at my lap, as confused--if not more so--than she was. "The letter," I said, raising my eyebrows at her. "It told me that Arnold was there, and that he . . . wanted to see me!" 

She gave me a funny look, then said, "What letter?" 

"The letter, the one that came in the mail today! You set it on the desk, remember? You were making supper, I came downstairs . . . remember?!" 

She looked at me gravely, then sighed. "Nothing like that happened, Helga. Maybe you were sleepwalking. . . . But how on earth could you get so far from home?!" 

I turned and stared out the window. What was the matter with me? Was I insane? . . . Probably. 

I didn't sleep much at all that night. I just kept seeing that woman, leading me through endless dark hallways, around and around. And despite the fact that I wasn't asleep, I couldn't wake up. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't erase the . . . the _realness_ of it. 

I finally did sleep, and it was only then that my nightmare stopped. But I was no closer to having Arnold than I had been. 

I was desperate. I needed to find him, to help him. That dream, or vision, or whatever the heck it was _had_ to have been for a reason! Things like that just don't happen without a reason! 

Unless you're insane . . .


	2. A new beginning, or an old ending...

"I find it hard to believe that you were sleepwalking. You say you don't do that anymore, right?" 

"Yeah, I haven't in years. I only do it when I eat greasy crap before bed." 

"Right. So, what do you think caused you to end up there? I mean, if it wasn't sleepwalking, then what do you think it was?" 

"I think I'm insane." 

"What?" 

"I think I'm insane." 

". . . Well, if you are, you're in the right place." 

Dr. Bliss folded her notes and set them aside. She picked up another paper and looked it over, then glanced at me from over top of her glasses. 

". . . You're not insane, Helga. You're a very emotionally-stable person. We've made sure of that, haven't we?" 

I sat silently for a moment, almost finding her question humorous. Then I smirked and said, "Yeah, I guess we have." 

She looked at me gravely, and realized she wasn't in the mood for sarcasm. "Helga, I'm serious. You're in perfect control of your mental faculties. _Something_ must have happened to cause you to break into some woman's house and break her kitchen window!" 

"I broke her window?" 

She stared at me blankly. Then, "Yes. When you were trying to get away, I suppose." 

I folded my arms and reclined on the couch. "Hmm . . . Maybe I _was_ sleepwalking, after all." 

She smiled at me. "No, Helga. You're not getting out of this. We're going to find out what _really_ happened, even if it kills me!" 

"Hope it doesn't come to that. I might actually miss you." 

"Ha ha. You're a riot, Helga." 

I rode home on my bike. I felt like the only high school junior without a car. Everybody was at least sixteen, and they all had parents who were more than willing to shell out a few grand for a stupid car for their stupid kid. It made me sick. 

When I came to my junction, I paused, and leaned my bike against a lamppost. If I kept going straight, I would end up at her house. I shivered, afraid for some reason. 

A wad of paper hit me in the back of the head. I spun around, angry, to find a little girl staring back at me. She was wearing the biggest smile I'd ever seen. 

"Hi Helga! Wanna play?" 

I stared at her, then blinked a few times, trying to clear my vision. I recognized her from somewhere . . . 

"Helga, why did you leave? You left me and Sissy all alone . . ." 

I continued to stare, not quite comprehending what was going on. I was getting chills now, too. There was something unbearably familiar about this girl. 

"Sissy died because of you. You left her, and you didn't save her like you should have. Daddy beat her up. You should've stayed with us, Helga. You could've saved her." 

I turned around and started pedaling. I pedaled for dear life. I couldn't put my finger on where I'd seen that girl before, but her presence scared me. 

. . . Megan. It hit me. That little girl was Megan. But she still looked so young! Like she hadn't aged a day since I had last seen her, three years ago! 

I started to cry as I rode on, afraid of everyone, afraid of everything, afraid of myself. I knew now, for certain, that I was insane. Everything around me was so confusing. I couldn't read the street signs, or anything else, for that matter. The world was a blur to me. That's the way it stayed until I passed out. 

When I woke up, I found myself in an alley, my bike on top of me. I figured I had passed out and it had fallen on me. Wow, that was a deep discernment. I was amazing myself. 

I looked with terror at just where I had ended up. There, directly across the street, was the house. That woman's house. 

I felt drawn to it. Like I was actually, physically being pulled toward it. I don't even remember moving my legs, but suddenly there I was, standing at the front door. Ringing the bell. Watching the door open. 

"It's you . . ." she said, looking at me square in the eyes, and frowning. "What do you want?" 

I found I was unable to speak. I tried to, but no sound would come out. I looked at her for a moment longer, my eyes pleading with her. Finally, she sighed. 

"Come in. We'll talk inside." 

I followed her, once again (or maybe for the first time), into her house. It was laid out like I remembered it, only now it was light and I could see everything. Despite its outward appearance, it was fairly well-kept. Almost cozy. I didn't think about that too much, though, and sat down at the table when she motioned that I should do so. 

"I-I wanted to apologize. I don't know why I was here the other night. I don't know what happened. I'm-I'm sorry." 

She stared at me, and gave me a funny look. She was very pretty, had light brown hair and beautiful eyes. She was about my height, which was 5'4". She looked familiar, too. But not like I'd seen her before. Like something else. 

"So you don't know at all why you were here?" she asked, taking a sip of coffee, which she had sitting at the table. 

"Well, I know why I _thought_ I was here." 

"Why was that?" 

I wasn't sure if I should say. It wouldn't help anything, and it would probably just make her think I was crazier than I actually was. But I decided it couldn't really hurt too much to tell. 

"I was looking for someone. A boy I knew, a few years ago." 

She froze. She stared at me for the longest time, or at least it felt like a really long time. Then she said, "What's his name?" 

"Arnold." 

She bit her lip, and took another sip of coffee. 

"Yes. I should've figured that was why you were here." 

I raised an eyebrow, and tapped my fingers on the table like I do when I'm annoyed. I was actually scared, though, so it didn't have the same effect. 

"What do you mean?" 

"The only reason anyone would come around here was if they were looking for Arnold. I should've known that. I shouldn't have even bothered calling the police." 

"Did you send me a letter?" I asked, starting to sweat. My stomach was flipping around inside of me. I felt like I was caught up in The Twilight Zone. It was unsettling. 

"What? No. I didn't send you a letter. I don't even know who you are." 

I sighed. I was relieved for some reason. "I'm Helga. Helga Pataki." 

"Nice to meet you. Listen, how do you know Arnold?" 

I almost laughed, grossly amused by this whole situation. "How do _I_ know him? What about you?!" 

She sat back, relaxing a little. "Fine, that's fair. I'm his mother." 

My mouth dropped to the floor, and I almost had to shove it shut. "You're . . . what?" 

"His mother. You were a friend of his?" 

I nodded dumbly, again scared out of my mind. 

"He had good friends. That always made me happy." 

"So wait a minute. You're his mother? How long have you lived here?" 

"Since he was twelve, thirteen-years-old. He was in fifth grade when I got here, I think." 

I sighed. "Would you please give me some explanation as to why . . . I mean, why . . . _why_? 

Her shoulders drooped, and she took another drink. "Yes, I guess I owe you that much. You were his friend, after all." She sipped again, then set her mug down. "I was a doctor, a field doctor, actually. His dad and I did missionary work all around the world, but mainly in Africa. Central Africa, really dangerous stuff. I loved it. So did his dad." 

A tear trickled down her cheek and sat between her lips. It stayed there until she spoke again. 

"Arnold must've been, what, two-years-old when we dropped him off at his grandparents' house. We were going on one final trip. To deliver medicine to a village of sick and dying people. Dangerous, but nothing we hadn't done before. 

"There was a plane wreck. Somehow, I survived. His dad wasn't so lucky. I guess, in that respect, neither was I." She paused, another tear making its way down her face. "It took me years, but I finally made it back to America. I had no money, no job, no house, nothing. I wanted to see Arnold so badly, but by then he was all grown up. Well, not all grown up, but too old to remember me. So, I decided I shouldn't interfere with his life. Let his grandparents raise him. They'd do a better job than I would've. They were at least financially stable. I had nothing. I could barely survive myself, let alone raise a child. Do you understand?" 

I nodded, though I wasn't entirely sure I did understand. Finally, I said, "So, you've been here for years." 

"Yes. I've been watching him grow up. I knew I recognized you. You're one of his friends, the one that would always make fun of him, his head and everything." 

I blushed. "Yeah. That was me." 

"I could tell you liked him. I was the same way when I was your age." 

We looked in each others' eyes for a minute or so, then she stood. "I suppose you want to know where he is? How he's doing?" 

"Yes!" I nearly shouted, standing with her. 

She sighed. "Come with me. It's not far." 

I followed her out to her car and got in, worried but excited. She started it up and backed out, nearly running over a shabby tomcat in the process. She drove slowly down the road, into a better part of town. She pulled into some subterranean parking lot and took a spot near the elevators. 

I followed her to the doors and we waited as the elevator was called. We got in. She pushed the button for the tenth floor. The doors shut. We went up. The doors opened. We stepped out. We were in a hospital. My guts immediately started polkaing inside of me. I nearly threw up. 

"Why are we here?!" I screamed, causing everyone in the area to turn and stare at me. "What's going on?!" 

She ignored my question and approached the nurse. "Arnold Benson's room, please." The nurse punched some buttons and smiled. 

"Go on ahead. He's awake, apparently. Good timing!" 

I followed her down the hall in a trance, feeling at every step that I was going to throw up. Finally we reached his room, and she opened the door. 

"Arnold? Are you awake, honey?" She stepped inside and pulled the curtain back. 

And there he was. Arnold. Hooked up to a million different machines, a million I.V.'s, a million monitors. He was breathing with one of those respiratory devices. He was a vegetable. 

He stared at her, sort of blankly, and sort of aware. Then he looked at me. 

Something changed in his eyes when they fell on me. There was a spark that hadn't been there before. 

"He was hit by a car, in Portland. Just a few months after he ran away. He had multiple, serious fractures, and he's been in and out of a coma for the past two and a half years. Most of his bodily functions have shut down. The people here are keeping him alive, and they have been since the accident." 

She bit her lip, apparently to stop herself from crying. Her lip started bleeding. 

"The driver was going, like, a hundred and ten miles an hour. The fact that he survived at all is a bonafide miracle. And the fact that he's still alive, today, is another one." 

I was crying at that point. I needn't explain why. But I bawled. And she put her arm around me, and held me close to her. 

I felt, now, that I no longer had any reason to live. I had seen the love of my life, Arnold, in a condition worse than death. If he had been dead, it would've been so much easier to cope with. But he wasn't dead. He was suffering. And who knew how long, if ever, till he recovered? 

I cried all the way home. I cried all that night. I cried all the next day. And the day after. I spent the next solid week crying my eyes out. I cried until, finally, I couldn't cry anymore. 

And that fact made me want to cry all the more.


	3. Reunion

_A good month passed. Maybe a month and a half. I didn't really keep track of time. As I said, it felt like my whole reason for existing was gone. Or, if not gone, then inert. It was just _there_, and that was worse than if it had been gone. _

Olga was compassionate about it. Though, actually, I think she found the thing more dramatic than sad. She's writing her own play. She's basically turning my whole rotten life into a piece of history. That's great, huh? Ha. 

I didn't receive any more freak-out visions in that time. Although I did read in the paper that Sarah, the girl from the state orphanage, had indeed died. Her father had killed her in a drunken stupor. The other girl, Megan, the one I saw on the street, was dead also. Killed the same night. Weird, huh? One of those, "I see dead people" things, maybe. 

But it wasn't like that. It was scary at the time, but the more I thought about it and remembered it, it was actually kind of comforting. I can't explain it, so I won't bother trying. 

And life went on. Sort of. My grades continued to fall. I was threatened with having to repeat the eleventh grade. That didn't sound like too much fun, but I really didn't care either way. Big Bob got out of jail, and said he wanted to see us. Olga politely declined. I read in the paper that Miriam was once again arrested for possession of marijuana. And for selling it, too. Guess she needed to make a living. 

Life went on. 

"Hi, is Helga there?" 

"Yeah, Pheebs, this is Helga. What's up?" 

"Sorry, Helga. I didn't recognize your voice. I just wanted to see how you were doing." 

I thought for a moment. "I'm doing a lot better, actually. Thanks for asking." 

"Have you been back to see him? It's been a month at least, hasn't it?" 

"Yeah, at least. No, I haven't gone back yet. It's still too painful, I guess." 

"I think it would do you some good to get over there and see him again. I wanted to bring the whole group from grade school along. He was still pretty close with everyone, and they'd like to see him. Especially Jarold." 

I didn't know how I should respond. Yeah, I thought it was a great idea, too. And if he was conscious, he'd probably really appreciate it. But I was scared. I didn't want to go in there and see him like that. 

"Alright, Phoebe. We'll go. When?" 

"Tomorrow, around 1:00. Sound good?" 

"Yeah." 

I spent the rest of that day crying again. It was refreshing, as I hadn't cried at all in that whole time. Then I panicked, because I wasn't sure what I was going to wear. And then I realized how stupid it was to worry about it, since he was a rotting vegetable. Then I cried some more. 

His mom was there. She was waiting for us by the front desk. 

"I gave her a call and told her to meet us here," Phoebe said, as all of us stepped off the elevator and into the brightly-lit hallway. "She's got special privilege to get around the visiting hours." 

I tried to smile at her. "Hi, Mrs. Benson." 

She smiled back at me. Then she led us down the hall toward his room. "Actually, it's not Mrs. Benson. I just used that as an assumed name for him. I didn't want anyone to disturb him. . . . Actually, I guess I was just being selfish. I wanted him all to myself. I hope you can forgive me." 

I nodded, though the idea that she had been keeping him from me for those years bothered me. 

We entered into the dimly-lit room, and she flicked the light switch on. There he was. I bit my lip to stop myself from crying. All of us--well, most of us, those of us who came--stared at him, almost in awe. 

Jarold, Phoebe, Stinky, Harold, Sid, Eugene, Rhonda. Jarold walked up to him, sat next to his bed, and held his hand for a minute. 

"Hey buddy," he said, struggling not to cry. "It's been awhile, hasn't it?" I could tell he was squeezing the life out of Arnold's hand. "It's good to see you again, man." 

Arnold sort of looked at him, and sort of didn't. Jarold took it in stride, forced a smile, then stood and stepped aside. Phoebe sat down. 

"Hi, Arnold. We're here. Sorry it took us so long." She hesitated, maybe trying to think up some excuse for not coming sooner. 

The others stood there, unsure of what to do. Then, one by one, they left the room. At first I thought they were being rude, and then I looked at my watch. Apparently, we had been there for more than an hour, standing there in silence. His mom, Jarold, and I, were the only ones left. 

Jarold stood, shaking. "You know, it's not fair! It's not fair at all! Man, this blows! How did he . . . I mean, what did he do to deserve this?! He was the greatest guy, always helping people, always thinking of everybody else before himself! He didn't deserve this!" 

He was crying. Embarrassed, he excused himself, leaving me and Arnold's mom alone with him. 

My face was expressionless. So was hers. Finally, she put her hand on my shoulder. "We have to leave in a few minutes. I'll leave you alone with him for a bit, okay?" 

I nodded, though I don't think she saw me. She was already on her way out. 

It was just me and him. It was time. Time to make amends. 

I sat next to him, took his hand. He turned to look at me. Something in his eyes, I saw again, changed. That . . . "spark," or whatever it was. Like he was somehow more aware now than he had been before. 

"Ar . . . nold." I stared into his eyes, and he stared back into mine. "Arnold. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." He kept right on staring at me, his face never changing. His eyes barely blinking. 

"This is all my fault. I pushed you too far, didn't I, Arnold? If I had kept my big, selfish mouth shut, I could've stopped all this. But I didn't. And you know why? Because I'm a complete idiot. I'm the biggest loser the world has ever seen. And through no fault of yours, you're paying for my crimes." 

I realized I was sounding like a melodramatic soap opera, but I didn't really care. "I do . . . love you, though. It's not worth much, but . . . for what it's worth . . ." I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. His flesh was so pale, I could see the impression of my lips stuck there. 

"I wish I could make it up to you. Do something, anything, so that you could be yourself again. I'd even take your place, if I could. Honestly, I would. Nothing would hold me back." 

He was still staring at me, but somehow, he seemed to be growing more distant. Like I was losing him back to the coma. I wasn't about to let that happen. 

"It was you, wasn't it?" I asked him, touching his face. "You sent me the letter . . . at least in my mind. And you sent Megan, didn't you? You wanted to lead me here. To you. But why?" 

Suddenly, a little color returned to his face, and he opened his mouth. "It wasn't me," I heard him mutter. "It wasn't me." 

Was he delusional? It was hard to tell. But I believed he was answering me. "It wasn't you?" I asked. "Then who was it?" 

He smiled a little, then looked up. I followed his eyes, but all I could see was the ceiling. I stared at the ceiling for awhile, and when I looked down at him again, he was smiling at me. 

"He sent you to me because . . ." He coughed a little, and the I.V. bag bubbled. "Because . . . I wanted you to know . . . that it's not your fault. That I don't blame you. That . . ." he paused, shutting his eyes in pain. "That, in the end, I loved you, too." 

I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them, he was lying there still, as much a vegetable as he had been a few moments ago. 

Did I imagine all of it? Had he really talked to me? "Arnold, can you speak to me?" I asked, hopeful yet doubting. 

He opened his eyes tiredly, and stared at the wall. No, he couldn't hear me. I had just imagined it. 

But then again, I had imagined a lot of things. His mother, and Megan. They were both true. Maybe . . . maybe what he said was true, too. 

"Helga, we've got to go," his mother said, sticking her head around from behind the door. "We can come back next week. He's scheduled for surgery tomorrow. He needs to get some rest." 

I went home that day, confident that everything was okay. He was alive. And though he would only survive for another year, he lived on in my heart forever. 

I became a doctor. I studied my brains out, so I could help people like him. I wanted to be able to touch someone's life, just like he had touched mine. And I wanted to make sure the tragedy that happened to him never happened to anyone else, ever again. 

In the end, I had made everything right between us. He told me he didn't blame me, and that he loved me, even in the end. Romantically? Probably not. But at the very least, he cared for me in a way that, perhaps, was deeper than before. 

Before then, I never believed in God. After that day, though, I believed. It had to have been God. How else would I have found him? How else would I have seen his mother, and Megan? And it was Megan who led me, through my fear, to his mother, who in turn led me to him. And how else would Arnold, in the state that he was, speak to me, tell me it was alright? 

There must be a God. And, for whatever reason, this God was looking out for me. 

And, I know, looking out for Arnold, too. 

The End


	4. Author's Notes...

Kind of a sad ending, I guess. Sorry. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how difficult it would be to present a cheerful ending without losing the meaning behind it. 

What meaning, you ask? Well, I hoped it was obvious. As Helga saw, in the end, there _is_ Someone out there who cares for her. And for everyone. She needed that, even more than she needed to make reparations with Arnold. 

Arnold's death at the end should've come as no surprise. I tried my best to make it obvious that he was hanging on to life by a thread, and that, at any time, he could die. 

I've probably disappointed some of you by wrapping it up like that. I'll admit, I surprised myself by dropping the ending in so quickly. If you're a bit disappointed, I apologize. But this was the vision I had for the story from the beginning, triumph through tragedy. If I tried to please everyone, I'd have an even more convoluted story than I do now. 

I just want to thank everyone for the great reviews. Things Change, Feelings Don't was my first fanfic ever, so it was a real challenge for me. So was this, but in a way, they're so connected that it feels like one, continuous narrative. Keep writing great stories, so I have a reason to come back to Fanfiction.net! 

Branden Johnson (Lambogod)


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